


À la Mode

by katiemariie



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/F, Interspecies Romance, One Night Stands, Telepathic Sex, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 15:30:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11210949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiemariie/pseuds/katiemariie
Summary: When they first meet, Guinan sweeps Lwaxana off her feet. Literally.





	À la Mode

Lwaxana doesn’t step foot into Ten Forward until at least a year after Deanna’s tour aboard the Enterprise began. In fact, she was completely unaware that the bar even existed until roughly an hour ago.

It fills her with not a small bit of pride (and a helping of annoyance) to know that Deanna’s mental shielding has progressed far enough that she’s manage to keep Ten Forward hidden from her so long. Deanna has been able to occlude tightly-held secrets from her mother since she tried on her first training bra. But to screen the thoughts of her crewmates, filtering out a single location (that is no doubt constantly on the mind of every adult aboard this ship given the sheer boredom her poor Jean-Luc institutes as “proper decorum”)? That takes more skill than Lwaxana realized Deanna had.

Regardless of whatever reason Deanna has for keeping such a large, tangible secret from her mother, the fact that she could clearly means Lwaxana has done something right.

And how to better celebrate this parental achievement than with a drink?

Lwaxana smiles at the Gallamite ambassador—the one with a brain too large, complex, and literally transparent to be shielded. She touches his arm lightly. “Thank you for the dinner invitation, but I believe I’ll be dining at Ten Forward this evening.”

She turns with a slight bow, leaving before he has a chance to respond, but Lwaxana can already hear the gears in his head spinning as he surveys the conference room for another young, nubile official to invite to his room.

After a few more polite goodbyes, Lwaxana frees herself from the wall-to-wall crowd of ambassadors and delegates. Making her way towards the turbolift, Lwaxana ruefully considers the many deals and relationships she’s forgone by leaving early and striking out on her own this evening.

But, she reminds herself, she isn’t merely an ambassador. On more than one occasion, the Betazoid press has lauded Lwaxana Troi as the great matriarch of her generation. (Although wary journalists always decline to specify exactly to which generation Lwaxana belongs.) And as such she has a duty to occasionally venture beyond the halls of power to walk amongst the people. How else could she ever hope to serve them? And Ten Forward is sure to be filled with the people—even if they are not technically _her people_. But people nonetheless and therefore deserving of Lwaxana’s largess.

And are they ever in need.

Lwaxana enters Ten Forward to find not the raucous parties and illicit beverages she hoped Deanna was hiding from her, but a room only slightly louder than a library with public displays of affection that would only shock a Vulcan. And, oh dear, that odd boy—Eastley, is it?—is sitting in the corner, drinking milk through a straw, staring moon-faced out at the stars.

This will not stand. Not at all.

Lwaxana hitches up her skirt and makes a beeline for the bar. She locks her focus on the bartender, hoping to find a sympathetic mind or even a willing conspirator in bringing a little color to this dull, grey ship. (And, really, a woman wearing such a large, vibrant hat must have a little joie de vivre in her, right?)

Lwaxana has the woman’s thoughts for no more than a second before her knees go out and her feet seem to slip out from under her.

Only the quick thinking—and strong arms—of a nearby Arcadian ensign keeps her from falling to the floor.

Normally, this turn of events would most certainly proscribe an evening spent in those strong, Arcadian arms, but another stranger has caught Lwaxana’s eye. And she has never been one to forgo a mystery for a sure thing.

The Arcadian lifts Lwaxana to her feet, their hands lingering just a moment too long on the small of her back. Lwaxana cups the ensign’s chin.

“Your service to the Fifth House will not be forgotten,” she says and walks away without another word. Enough has been implied.

The bartender’s head cocks to the side, her expression one entirely improper for taking in a very beautiful and very noble woman who very nearly broke her neck.

“You must be Ambassador Troi,” the bartender says. “Daughter of the Fifth House, holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed.”

There’s a slight mocking tone in her voice that Lwaxana picks up despite her well-documented vanity.

“My reputation proceeds me,” Lwaxana says, taking a seat at the bar. She doesn’t trust herself to stay on her feet around whoever this woman is.

“I know your daughter. She’s mentioned more than once that you like to sneak a peek into other people’s thoughts.”

Lwaxana scoffs. “You make it sound so deviant. Telepathy is simply a fact of Betazoid biology. You’d think the Federation would be more accepting. Ambassador Spock lays hands on anything with a pulse, but when a Betazoid engages in a natural, biological process, we’re considered rude.”

“I don’t think you’re being rude. Reckless and perhaps a little arrogant, but not rude.”

Lwaxana gathers her skirts, forming a taffeta shield from this stranger. “And who are you to insult a Federation ambassador?”

The bartender leans down, propping her elbows up on the bar. “My name is Guinan. I am a being of unfathomable depth and complexity.”

Lwaxana lets her skirts fall and her guard down, leaning closer to this Guinan. “Is that all?” she purrs.

Guinan glances at her lips. “I also tend bar.”

“You’re not Human.”

“I’m not anything. At least, not anything you’d understand.”

“I think you’ll find I am very understanding.”

Guinan smirks. “There’s that arrogance again.”

“So says the being of unfathomable depth and complexity.”

“It may be modest to minimize your strengths, but it’s not arrogant to tell the truth.” Guinan leans in closer, switching to a whisper. “You took one look inside my head and it sent you sprawling. Your knees gave out, your equilibrium swayed, your proprioception failed. Now, imagine what would have happened to your frail, mortal body if you hadn’t looked away?”

“Frail?” Lwaxana huffs. “I have the bone density of a twenty-three year old.”

“You know, that’s specific enough that I believe you.” 

Back in the game, Lwaxana leans nearer. “Have I ever given you reason to doubt?”

“You haven’t had the time.”

“I can make time.”

“What’ll it be?”

Lwaxana raises a carefully drawn eyebrow.

“I know you didn’t come in here to talk. So, what’ll it be?” Guinan tilts her head toward the bottles lining the back shelf.

Lwaxana considers. “I’m in the mood for something deep. And complex.”

-

Guinan awakens to the kind of hangover she hasn’t had for centuries. A fuzziness of mind and ringing in the ears brought on by overindulgence—in telepaths rather than alcohol.

The events of last night penetrate her consciousness like an épée piercing through Crème brûlée.

The telepath, the older-younger woman with verifiably sturdy bones and supple joints, the challenge, the flirtation, the calling in a waiter to sub for her, the walk to the ambassador’s guest quarters, and then what usually happens.

Guinan reining herself in, tightening her boundaries like a cell wall, pulling all that she is into a fine, tense point so that the telepath can take her in. And then the slow expansion as Guinan widens her boundaries, pressing up against Lwaxana’s, encouraging her view to grow with every ounce of pressure until Lwaxana is uncertain she can take any more of Guinan, but of course she remains, pushing herself until truly she can go no further and collapses on the bed, withdrawn from Guinan in a panting heap, so that Guinan can blossom into her full self with reckless abandon.

In short, a sweaty, extended metaphor for intercourse where it’s not entirely clear who’s on top. Guinan likes to think that’s why she enjoys it so much—it’s so egalitarian!—but if she’s honest it probably has more to do with knowing that just by being herself—fully and reservedly—she can get someone (and herself) off. At least, telepathically. Anything physical generally requires Guinan to engage in a verb other than “to be.”

Like, for example, last night, she had to lay on her back, spread her legs, and listen to a lecture on the beauty of Betazoid biology and the life cycle. She followed along as Lwaxana explained how the Phase made some Betazoid women so frustratingly aroused that every inch of their flesh became pulsing erogenous zones liable to go off at the slightest breeze. Lwaxana assured her that, as a woman of noble birth and prestigious education, she had learned to control this phenomena, slowly herding her raging oversensitivity into a more secluded part of her body. Of course, as Guinan discovered, that doesn’t mean it has to stay there. If sufficiently motivated, Lwaxana could will that sensual receptiveness to migrate into any body part of her choosing. For example, a finger. Or a hand. Or an arm.

As Lwaxana removed her rings and bangles, Guinan grabbed a bottle of oil from the nightstand.

An action Guinan regrets the morning after. Not because she didn’t enjoy it (she did). And not because she didn’t need the oil (she did; she’s not a young woman anymore). But because she neglected to wipe off before passing out asleep. The dried oil between her thighs serves as a pleasant but unpleasantly sticky reminder of last night’s activities. Still, she wonders if washing it off now would even be worth it given the prospect of further Betazoid biological wonders on the horizon.

Guinan smiles, finally brave enough to open her eyes, the prospect of an encore emboldening her to face her hangover.

Lwaxana, however, is nowhere to be seen. Not that Guinan expected to find Lwaxana lying passed out beside her, wig off, makeup smudged, breasts unsupported. No, Lwaxana is exactly the kind of lover to awaken before dawn to shower and put on her daytime look, all to maintain the illusion that her face really does look like that. (Guinan knows because she may have been that kind of lover in days gone by. American beauty standards in the late 19th century will do that to a young woman’s confidence.)

Sitting up, Guinan appraises a varied collection of robes laid out thoughtfully on the chair on her side of the bed. She wonders if Lwaxana put them there herself or if tending to the ambassador’s one-night stands is one of the many personal touches handled by the tall, silent servant Lwaxana shooed outside last night.

Either way, being so attended is a rare luxury outside of the holodeck; Picard has some rather scintillating hang-ups about pre-Revolutionary France which Madame Guinan, decadent courtier, is more than willing to help him work through.

Guinan selects a nearly-sheer robe and debates leaving it open before cinching the belt in the manner experience has taught best displays her silhouette.

Drawn by the smell of fresh pastry and fruits she can’t place, Guinan steps into the sitting room to find mother and daughter enjoying a late breakfast.

Not looking up from her parfait, Deanna sardonically trills, “Mother, my next stepfather is awake.”

Lwaxana pats her mouth with a cloth napkin. “Must you always be so surly in the morning?”

Keenly aware of her near-nudity and the oil still sticking to various parts of her body, Guinan says, “I should get dressed.”

Deanna’s head pops up in recognition before turning sharply to Lwaxana. “Mother!”

“Yes?” Lwaxana bites into a berry.

“I can’t believe you—” Deanna sputters. “How did you—”

Lwaxana tsks. “Oh, my dear daughter, do I need to sing you the Sephina the Cephalopod song? _Build a stronger shield to shield a bigger brain_ ,” she sing-songs, “ _because mass is directly proportionate to magnitude_.” Wrinkling her nose, she glances at Guinan. “It rhymes in Betazoid.”

“The Gallamite delegation,” Deanna says.

“Oh, yes,” Lwaxana says. “The Ambassador was very keen on spending the night with me. He asked me to eat dinner in his rooms, but only after he considered bringing me to Ten Forward. Now, imagine my surprise when I realized the Enterprise had a bar this entire time. Deanna, I realize you may not approve of my social life, but to block out this ship’s only night spot? That’s bordering on cruel.”

“That was not my intention at all,” Deanna protests. “A happy, and apparently necessary, side effect, but not my intention.”

“Then whose?” Lwaxana asks.

“Mine,” Guinan says, stepping further into the room. “I asked Deanna to shield the bar.”

A look of shock contorts Lwaxana’s made-up face. “But why? You seemed so happy to see me.”

“You’re a telepath.”

Lwaxana puffs up like a peacock. “That wasn’t a problem last night.”

“Mother, as hard as you may find this to believe,” Deanna says, “the shielding around Ten Forward isn’t about you. It’s about keeping confidential information private.”

“People tell me things,” Guinan explains. “Often things they would never tell anyone else. People on this ship understand that. And if they overhear something in Ten Forward, it never leaves their lips. But unfortunately it does stay in their heads. Your daughter figured out that by shielding thoughts related to the bar from telepaths, she could keep people from accidentally revealing others’ secrets.” Guinan pauses. “Captain Picard is working with the admiralty to see if similar shields can be applied to restricted areas on Starfleet facilities.”

Lwaxana’s eyes widen, maternal pride washing over her. “Is that true, little one?”

Deanna smiles slightly. “It was just something I did to keep myself from violating patient confidentiality. Applying the concept to a room other than my office was simple.”

“But you’re shielding the thoughts of everyone on this ship,” Lwaxana says. “That’s no mean feat.”

“True, but clearly I haven’t mastered it if you overheard something about Ten Forward.”

“Well, that just means you’ll need to refine your methods. Shields take maintenance. Have you considered the Vxeen method?”

“No, I consulted her work but I doubted how applicable it would be to a large confined space.”

Guinan seizes this mother-daughter bonding moment as her opportunity to sneak back into the boudoir for a sonic shower.

-

Deanna watches with mild amusement as her mother runs her old charms on a much older charmer.

“I don’t know when I’ll be returning,” Lwaxana says with a faint sigh.

Guinan smolders. “I don’t know if I’ll be here when you do.”

Deanna rolls her eyes, earning a chortle from Chief O’Brien.

“The life of an ambassador is itinerant, unpredictable.” Lwaxana crosses the transporter platform, chewing the scenery. “Our paths may never cross again.”

Guinan shushes her. “Don’t talk about never. For people like you and me, there’s no such thing.”

Lwaxana looks over her shoulder. “So, if we met again, you would make time… for us?”

“I own nothing in this universe but time. It would be rude not to share.”

They embrace in a fit of loud, lip-smacking passion, and Deanna and Miles preoccupy themselves with a brief game of dom-jot on the transporter console. They look away only once Guinan has rejoined them behind the console.

Lwaxana takes her place at the center of the transporter pad, Mr. Homn standing still as a statue beside her as he has for the past fifteen minutes (and likely will for the rest of his life).

“Deanna, dear,” Lwaxana starts, “please remind Captain Picard that I require a much larger closet. Mr. Homn could barely fit everything in this time, and you know I’ll need to bring all of my wigs for the Feast of the Great Quadrinity.”

“Goodbye, mother,” Deanna says firmly.

Lwaxana makes a slightly affronted noise, but still blows a kiss to Deanna. And another to Guinan. And one to Chief O’Brien for good measure. Turning red up to his ears, Miles energizes the transporter, whisking Lwaxana Troi out of their lives for the time being.

Guinan stares at the empty space that just seconds ago held Lwaxana. “Your mother is too sweet.”

“Sweet?” Deanna asks.

Being a public figure on the intragalactic stage, many words have been used to describe Lwaxana Troi—often in earshot of Deanna. But not once has she heard anyone—not even her father—call her mother “sweet.”

Guinan starts toward the corridor, knowing Deanna will follow. “Yeah, sweet. Like a Baked Alaska. Not something you’d want for every meal, but once in a while…”

Deanna chuckles. “I think that sums up my mother better than I ever could.”

“And, of course,” Guinan continues, “there are some people without a sweet tooth in their mouth.”

“Or who are lactose intolerant,” Deanna adds, seizing on the ice cream motif.

Guinan nods. “And even one bite will turn their stomach. But that just means more Baked Alaska for the rest of us.”

Deanna smiles knowingly. “Captain Picard left us with a lot of Baked Alaska this morning.” His absence from her mother’s departure, while conspicuous to both Deanna and O’Brien, wasn’t remarked upon by either Guinan or Lwaxana.

Guinan folds her hands. “I think Captain Picard is happy that someone else will be clearing his dessert plate for a while.”

Deanna sighs. “I do my best to run interference between them, but my mother is incredibly persistent, and what she wants from Captain Picard I can’t give.”

Guinan looks at Deanna from under the brim of her hat. “Does it bother you that I can?”

Deanna stops walking, taking a moment to read her own feelings on the matter. “No, not at all. In fact, I’m relieved that my mother is seeing someone who’s forsworn marriage.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘forsworn.’”

Deanna pales, her irises turning grey.

Guinan chuckles. “But I am taking a break from marriage. At least for the next century.” She touches Deanna’s elbow. “I assure you my intentions for your mother are entirely scandalous.”

“Good,” Deanna says, coloring returning to her face. “Of course, if things became serious between you and my mother, I would be entirely accepting. But you know if my mother is a bride before I am, no one on this ship will ever hear the end of it.”

“Oh, I’m quite aware. And now that she knows about my bar, you and Captain Picard won’t have anywhere to hide.”

Given Guinan’s close relationship with her mother, and in consideration of Guinan’s professional pride, Deanna doesn’t mention the senior staff’s plan to build a smaller, secret bar just for that purpose.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Art for the beta and for encouraging me to go broader with the fisting jokes.


End file.
